


For My Brother

by fremen_wali



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Disordered Eating, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Gen, Needles, Pre-Canon, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 05:49:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fremen_wali/pseuds/fremen_wali
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-series BBC Sherlock. Sherlock is in the throes of drug addiction. Mycroft helps. Cross-posted from my FF.net account.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For My Brother

Are you going to speak today, Sherlock?

.

The longer it takes you to cooperate, the longer you'll stay here. Is that what you want?

..

There were five people in the circle of metal fold out chairs, not counting Sherlock himself. In reality, there were eight bodies, but the other three weren't really there; shells of former lives, now content to sit in a drooling, sedated stupor. He could discount them completely.

Vaguely, he registered the garbled sound of a woman speaking, her scratchy whine drilling its way through his light haze from the cocaine he'd taken an hour earlier, secreted in his room- a small hole in his mattress. He ran the tip of his tongue briskly over his top gums, checking if there was any sensation coming back yet. His head felt miles away as he turned to look at the woman, but his brain was in hyperdrive, quickly cataloguing everything he could observe about her in her uniform of white cotton top and trousers, her rubber-soled slippers shifting anxiously.

Thirty-fi- no, thirty-six, chain smoker, filthy, kids, no contact. No contact. Pathetic. He didn't really care. His focus jumped to the person next to her, a balding, shivering man wearing far too many layers and perceptibly inching away from her flailing arms as she told her story.

Sherlock wasn't listening. He never did. It was always the same. The people that wanted to stutter, pretending to be mortified but actually elated at the chance to have all eyes on them for two minutes, through What They Did That Day and How They Felt, thanks very much Doctor, would and eventually the torch would be passed to Sherlock who pointedly ignored it.

To Sherlock, the room buzzed with high tensions and his own nervous energy. This was boring and a waste of his time. His right leg bounced arrhythmically, his left foot hooked around his right Achilles tendon in an effort to hold it in place. He sniffed absently, taking inventory of a rush of smells pervading the air. Sweat, the chemical smells of the industrial body wash they provided the patients, and an underlying note of fear.

...

He entered his room - white, far too white, laughably white - and sat down with a soft flump on his bed. Dust motes suddenly stood out stark against the streams of sunlight coming in through his blinds and he began to count them. His hands itched. How long was he supposed to breathe the same air as the other people here? His work. His mind flashed briefly to the pile of manilla file folders full of police reports he knew Mycroft had probably confiscated from his bureau top at home and returned to the Yard. Bastard.

He felt slower. The drug was wearing off and already, he wanted more of it. He could feel the blood pounding through his veins and was amazed that when he looked at his wrist, thin and pale in the light, the blue threads he could see were not visibly pulsating as he thought they would be.

Sherlock held his left wrist and squeezed with his thumb, feeling his bones and tendons move and strain under his skin. Lunate. Scaphoid. Triquetrum. Radiocarpal joint. Radius. Ulna. He felt like screaming.

Fuck Mycroft, honestly.

...

"Sherlock,"

Mycroft's greeting simultaneously managed to be melodious and condescending. Sherlock never knew how he did it.

The wooden door creaked as it opened, revealing black Italian leather shoes and the tip of the umbrella the elder Holmes had taken to carrying.

Sherlock sat on the cold, wooden dormitory floor, papers and apparatus strewn everywhere. He put the needle down and clenched his forearm where he had just depressed the plunger. He took a breath in through his nose sharply, feeling his body spark and awaken. He moaned softly, eyes closing in pleasure. When he opened them again, he could see everything. His heart kicked up a notch, beating as though he had just finished a run.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft said softly.

...

Where is it?

The white room thrummed with wretched excitement. He thought he could have made it, at least until after the atrocious dinner they insisted on serving, which he refused, and after final checks, when he could be alone and snort the little bit he had left, never mind getting some for the next day. So when he reached into the gash in the mattress and felt nothing, need had turned into blinding fearpanicrage.

He pulled the mattress nearly off the twin bed frame, noting briefly the hidden and thankfully unused wrist straps that were tucked into the metal slats. For violent patients, his mind supplied. He ripped the sheets off in one swift move, tossing the white linens into the air where they landed to drape over the back of his desk chair. Sherlock grappled with the mattress, turning it, angling it to rest on the width of the long side so he could feel deeper into the small pocket he'd carved into the underbelly. He reached in, yanked at the fibers, felt the old springs rattle and let out an actual growl at the lack of the small plastic bag that should be there.

His skin jumped when the door opened, and he didn't need to turn to know two orderlies were standing there.

"Mister Holmes, as you've noticed, we've confiscated your cocaine. This violation will not go unpunished. You must come with us for a cavity search and your first vitamin drip. If you protest, you will be sedated. Please, follow us." The man on his left, the one who smelt of too much aftershave and looked like Charles Bronson, moved to take hold of Sherlock's arm and stopped only when Sherlock whipped around, fixing both men with an icy snarl. "I do not allow anyone to touch me," he said stonily. Sherlock cast his eyes around his room, as if he could find a way of escaping, then dropped them, sighing softly. He calmed himself, realizing that his options were slim and it'd be quicker to do as they asked.

The men visibly relaxed in relief. They moved to the hallway and waited for Sherlock to join them, then started down the hallway, walking abreast of him. They took him to a room with a drain in the middle of the floor, a shower head near the top of the far wall, and one large obviously one-way mirror. The rest was completely covered in small tiles, light green like in hospitals. It made Sherlock feel uneasy.

The florescent lights cast a sickly glow to everything and Sherlock took a few deep breaths to try to calm the sudden nerves in his stomach. Body cavity search, he remembered, somewhat frantically. He took a tentative couple of steps away from the two orderlies who had escorted him, feeling all at once like he was ten years old instead of twenty-two.

The door behind him opened again and a middle-aged woman wearing a white lab coat over green surgeon's scrubs came in, carrying a small box and a clipboard. Sherlock backed away, almost to the far wall. The woman stopped about a meter away from him and cleared her throat, saying in a voice far softer than he would've imagined for such a stern face, "Mister Holmes, you are in direct violation of this facility's rules, chiefly, possession of illegal contraband. This afternoon, we need to perform a manual body cavity search, to make certain you aren't carrying anything else inside your person."

"No, you only wish to humiliate me," Sherlock mumbled as he glanced towards the mirror where he knew security guards were watching, waiting for a patient to misbehave, and flushed, ashamed at himself for being unable to remain stoic.

Her face softened a little, and she tried to placate him a little saying, "It'll only take a few minutes Sherlock, then we'll mark down that you've cooperated and you can go on to your vitamin therapy in peace. If you don't cooperate and compel me to order James there to forcibly restrain you while we proceed, things will only become more difficult for you."

There was a tense silence as Sherlock stood, shaking a little in the chill of the room. He nodded once, face drawn into a blank mask, and began undressing, not caring to pick up the uniform pieces after he'd dropped them. He stared pointedly ahead, ignoring his own nakedness in favor of counting the tiles above the door frame.

He felt rather than saw James the orderly, not Bronson then, move towards him. James came up in front of him, holding a small flashlight and with a silent sympathetic look, implored him to open his mouth and tilt his head back. The light was shined in his mouth, then up each nostril, finishing with a quick glance in each ear. The woman opened the small box she'd brought in, passing latex gloves and a small squeeze bottle of something to James. Lubricant, his mind whispered, it's really happening.

He allowed James to maneuver him to face the shower wall and bent to lean towards it when he felt a gentle touch in the middle of his spine. Sherlock put his sweating hands against the cold tiles, moving to rest his forehead against the back of his right hand. He closed his eyes and spread his legs at the small tap to the inside of his knees. He heard the gel being squeezed out of the bottle and flinched, suddenly feeling a gloved hand moving between his cheeks.

Sherlock could feel his face heating up in embarrassment and pressed his forehead harder to the back of his hand. When the finger, cold and slick, finally breached him, his body tensed, trying to expel the foreign object. "Sir, if you could try to breathe, it'll be over soon," he heard James say behind him, no trace of emotion in his voice. Sherlock took in a ragged breath, feeling hot tears spring to his eyes, which he squeezed tighter closed.

...

"Sherlock, this is our third meeting. If you don't start talking about your addiction, we'll never be able to help you," the voice said gently, as if it were trying to reach inside of him and pull him up.

The room was floral. That was the only way to describe it. Gaudy pinks and greens and yellows swam in his peripheral as he studied the worn couch he sat on, absently traced the decahedron patterns on its surface, noted that it had been recently cleaned. The room even smelled like a florist's, obviously from the scented air freshener timed to spray out every thirty minutes, but the smell seemed to emanate mostly from his therapist, sitting in the exact middle of the room, cold and detached, even through her warmly colored clothing.

Disgusting.

His stomach betrayed him with a small rumble and he glanced up to see her looking worried at him. "Haven't you eaten yet today?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

It slows me down. He shook his head once.

"Why ever not?"

Why would I? Her question hung in the empty air. Sherlock pressed his lips together.

"You're only hurting yourself, Sherlock."

She sat up taller, sighing deeply through her nose.

Whatever goading tactics you have, they aren't going to work, he thought bitterly. His hands felt numb, so he stretched his fingers out, watching the thin digits.

After his violation yesterday, they'd allowed him to shower, putting up a small white plastic divider to protect themselves from the spray of cool water. It afforded him a small chance to pull himself together, to scrub the feeling away and hide his face for a few minutes. After that, he'd pulled on a fresh set of clothes and followed them to a comfortable nurse's station where they'd sat him on a hospital bed and hooked him up to an IV bag. He'd quickly been able to deduce the bag's contents: a multivitamin cocktail with calcium and magnesium, to help relax the muscles. He couldn't deny the sense of excitement he felt just from the needle approaching his skin, but as soon as the nurse had tied off the tourniquet and begun prodding around for a usable vein, he felt like he were going to vomit.

The IV treatment had left him feeling full and sluggish. His head hurt. His arm hurt. He thought he could feel the liquid swish throughout his body. He made it back to his blindingly white room and immediately went to the small toilet, practically shoving his finger in his mouth so it could get out get out get out

but all that came up was spittle, his stomach clenching painfully.

"...aine addiction. If you can't cooperate, I'll call your brother Mycroft and we'll decide a course of action, alright Sherlock?" She was talking again. He hadn't been listening. He sniffed and swallowed, his throat impossibly dry. None of them would ever understand.

"May I have some water?" he asked, his tone careless and bored.

...

He started really feeling withdrawal symptoms the next night. His dreams were uneasy and he rolled and groaned in his sleep, waking in a sweating frenzy. "Oh God," he croaked, bringing his hands up to press against his face, willing the nightmare away. His room was still dark, only two in the morning, and Sherlock flipped the sheets off his legs to swing them to the side of the bed. He sat there in silence for a minute, just focusing on his breathing.

Before Sherlock came to the center, he'd only used when he needed that extra boost. His mind ran a hundred times faster than everyone else's, he knew that, but when he was investigating, when he needed to get something done in an hour rather than a day, there was always the drug to help him. It kept him feeling solid, stronger, fast enough to keep up with himself. He received excellent grades in his classes, but that was when he decided to attend. He'd gotten himself caught up in studying the news surrounding a London crime organization and he'd felt he was close to a breakthrough when Mycroft and his fucking nose in everyone's business came strolling in. After that, Mycroft informed Sherlock that he had told the university administration that "Sherlock will be taking a sabbatical for health reasons" and signed him into this rehabilitation center.

"I've had it checked out, Sherlock," he'd said in the car ride over, his thumb rubbing the handle of his umbrella, the only sign he was in any way worried. "They are the most reputable and I feel they can help you better than I. I... I will visit you soon, little brother." Sherlock's response had been less than dignified, but he acquiesced, knowing that he still had a small stash on him to get him through the next two weeks or so, if he was careful about how much he did at a time. But now it was gone. He'd been here two weeks, and he wasn't sure when he'd be able to leave this place. He knew that he was being difficult, that obviously he was damaging his body and his brain by using cocaine; he'd done enough research on the effects of the drug, weighing the pros and cons before beginning this, but he didn't think he could stop. If he wanted to stop.

Sherlock stood, stretching in the dim light that came from the hallway through the small window in his door. He went to the door, locked from the outside, and peered through the window, seeing no one. He turned and went to the small bathroom and turned on the light. Sherlock leaned against the cool tile of the countertop the wash basin sat on. He caught his reflection in the oval mirror, noted the light sleep-blush that began on his cheeks and spread to his neck, but was now beginning to fade. The air felt too warm in here. He reached up and ran his fingers through his dark curls, tugging lightly and thinking distantly about the last time he'd had a haircut. Sherlock sighed, turning away from the mirror and clicking off the light. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of his room, then went to lay back on his bed. He couldn't sleep any more.

...

Mycroft Holmes walked briskly through the automatic glass doors, carrying a small white bakery box in one hand, briefcase in the other. He nodded amiably to the front desk clerk after signing the Visitors sheet and kept walking, turning down one long hallway after another until he reached the wing he was looking for. Three doors in and on the left, he knocked twice.

"Go away, Mycroft," Sherlock's voice came through the door, muffled and petulant.

Mycroft smirked and shifted the box so he could open the door. "It could have been your therapist," Mycroft said as he entered the room and closed the door with a soft snick behind him, a tinge of amusement in his voice.

"No, it couldn't have," Sherlock retorted snappily. He was lying on his back, his eyes covered by his pillow, "because not only could I hear your shoes, YOU'RE the only idiot who's knocked."

Mycroft tutted and set the box and his case on the small desk then pulled the chair out, turning it to face the bed. He stood behind it, his hands resting on the chair back lightly.

He took a moment to observe his brother's lodgings, the decorations or in this case, lack of them, and the obvious attempt to resemble a hotel room, but one with a sinister undertone that Mycroft knew Sherlock was aware of. It was more than a little disquieting, but if this was what was needed to get through to Sherlock then Mycroft could accept it.

As much as his brother's actions scared and frankly, offended him, he knew he had to put on the brave face and take care of him.

"I've brought you something from Mummy's shop," Mycroft began, almost hesitantly. "She misses you and just wants you to recover."

Sherlock sat up then, fury across his features. "You told our Mother?" he hissed.

Mycroft only raised his eyebrows in defense. This reaction was to be expected. Anger. That's fine. That meant he was at least ashamed of his addiction. Why Sherlock did not expect Mycroft to confide in their Mum was a little surprising.

"Of course. How could I not?" Mycroft moved to sit on the chair, sliding forward to the edge. He brought his fingers up to tent in front of his lips. "Sherlock, you must know that I'm only doing this for your benefit. I do care about you, you know."

Sherlock snorted and rolled over to press his face back into his pillow, his white shirt riding up to expose a nearly concave stomach and his lower ribs. Mycroft winced. "Sherlock, take one of these," he said, twisting to pick up the box on the desk behind him.

"Fuck you," Sherlock replied dully.

"I already knew you didn't eat much but this is absurd. How long will you go this time? Until you collapse?"

"You seem to be eating enough for the both of us, brother." Sherlock's voice was laced with venom.

Mycroft tried to not feel hurt by that, instead just picked up a lemon cupcake and held it out in offering. "Sherlock, please. Don't be childish. You've got to really put forth an effort here."

Sherlock groaned in anger. "I had everything under control, don't you understand that?"

"No, you didn't. " Mycroft replied firmly. Now we're getting somewhere.

"Sherlock, your professors reported you had a little over fifteen percent attendance rate this term. You obviously are malnourished and if you had continued, you would lose neural function, developed tremors, and altogether become unable to do anything of value. You could do anything you wanted in this world..." Mycroft's voice was stern. "And I'll be damned if I'm going to watch you kill yourself."

There was silence from the bed and Mycroft waited patiently as his brother extracted himself from the pillow, sitting up and turning to face him again. They sat there just looking at each other in silence, Mycroft still holding the cupcake and feeling a little ridiculous for his emotional display.

"I need it, My," Sherlock whispered finally, taking the cupcake from his hand.

...

He had eaten two of the cupcakes before throwing the box away, once Mycroft left. More out of duty to his body than actually feeling hungry.

Since his contraband offense, Sherlock was required to have an escort almost everywhere he went. At two that afternoon, he was scheduled for a sauna session, to "remove chemicals from the body through natural methods". His orderly this time was a balding man named Chris who had two kids, a dog, and was really craving a cigarette. When Sherlock said all of this to him, the shock could not be more apparent on his face.

"That's amazing, sir," Chris exclaimed, looking at Sherlock in awe.

"It's painfully obvious," Sherlock said as they walked, "but if you would allow me one of your cigarettes, you could go on break now and I wouldn't say anything." Sherlock put on his most charming face, appealing to the man's sympathies.

They had stopped right outside the locker room door. Chris looked as though he weren't going to do it, then with a quick glance around, passed Sherlock a cigarette and one match from his book, then walked towards the nearest staff door as Sherlock went into the sauna.

He stripped quickly, placing his clothes in a pile on the bench provided, wrapped himself in a towel and opened the second door to the sauna. He was alone. Sherlock lit the cigarette and, pouring water over the heated rocks in the center of the room, went to recline on the bench, allowing the steam to obscure the smoke.

He exhaled, a plume of smoke pouring from his mouth and nostrils. Blissfully, he shut off his mind, the cigarette calming him for the first time in days. Sweat began to collect in the dip of his sternum, in the crease of his elbow, and a single drop ran down his eyebrow and into his ear.

He sat up. The cigarette was mostly gone now so he ground it out on the wet wood of the bench. He sat there a few minutes thinking over the last thing he'd said to Mycroft before he'd left.

"I need it because without it, I can't keep myself occupied. Not for long. If I could just have something..." he looked up at his brother, silently pleading. "You understand what it's like to be surrounded by idiots. You get something years before anyone else does and they're all so BORING."

Mycroft had softened a bit then, looking like he didn't know what to do before he perked up, grabbing his briefcase from the desk and moving to the door. He looked like he'd just had an idea and Sherlock could see him pull his phone out, dialing furiously as he walked.

...

"How are we today, Sherlock?"

Trying, Sherlock thought. He sighed.

Three of the people from the last group were back, but there were five new faces this time. Counting himself and the counselor leading the circle, ten bodies total. The thought of speaking in this room for the first time only helped to cement his mouth. He felt unprepared and annoyed.

It was cold. It was always cold in this room. The overhead lights were off, but all the blinds on the windows were open, filling the room with a sort of half-light.

Groups were always at the end of the week, and Sherlock had had enough of vitamin therapy and blood tests and he thought maybe if he participated, he could finally stop having someone constantly around him when he walked anywhere.

He sat, having had no cocaine for nine days, eleven hours and he'd honestly left off counting the minutes when the twitches started. His symptoms were getting worse, but if Sherlock was telling the truth, it wasn't too different from how he felt before taking the drug. He was too... too. Like every bit of him was amplified, barely contained within his skin.

"Sherlock?" the voice prodded him out of his torpor. Here it was. If he chose to react, he was buying in to this therapy nonsense.

"Yes?" his voice cracked from disuse. Not a good start. Hard to sound superior.

The group leader smiled. "Would you like to discuss with the group how you feel, physically? Emotionally? You've been off cocaine for-" a quick check of the clipboard, "-about ten days now."

Sherlock closed his eyes against the urge to roll them. The voice was entirely too chipper and this somehow managed to make him feel more ashamed.

He took a breath and began, his voice brusque and hurried.

"It's hateful. I need it. I know I shouldn't, but I do. Every time I try to eat, I feel ill, so I don't." He paused and took in another breath, overly aware of how warm his face was becoming. The other group members were looking at him, their dull, empty eyes boring into him.

"Well, those symptoms are to be expected." Sherlock turned his eyes to the counselor who was leaning over the clipboard at him, looking very pleased at his confession. "And not to be too blunt, but you'll have these feelings and more for at least a month after you leave here. It will not be easy, but nothing is impossible, right everyone?" This was directed at the rest of the group who all nodded or murmured their agreement. It made Sherlock want to throttle them all.

After I leave here, he mused. There's a thought. What about Cambridge, about home? A job?

He looked around at the people sitting in their metal chairs, at their drooping eyes from whatever medications they were on, at the hands that were hanging limp at their sides. They made him sick.

I'm sick.

He felt like he was collapsing. Cracking and splintering in front of everyone and it was so loud, how can no one else hear it? Wave after wave slamming into him until he felt he couldn't breathe. He stood up in such a rush, he knocked his chair over, the metal clanging to the tile floor. His head spun and the floor rushed up to meet him.

...

Sherlock sat alone in a corner of the bright cafeteria, a red tray with a turkey sandwich, a half of a pickle, and a bottle of water in front of him. He lifted the top slice of bread off his sandwich and stared at the mayonnaise he found there, his lip curling in disgust. Scraping it off with a plastic knife, he put the bread back and brought the food to his lips. He took a tentative nibble and found that for once, the taste didn't make him want to rush for the toilet. Finishing the sandwich made him feel tired, but he was pleased with himself at this bit of progress. He was about to unscrew the cap from the bottle when two bodies approached his table, one in a finely tailored designer suit and the other, a cheap knockoff.

He looked up to see his brother and a man he'd never seen before but after a perfunctory glance, deduced he worked with the Yard.

"Sherlock, this is Inspector Lestrade," Mycroft said by way of greeting.

"How do you do, Inspector?" Sherlock said carefully.

"Eh, can't complain," Lestrade said cheerily, his working class accent and boyish grin lifting the mood.

Mycroft smiled thinly and brought forth his briefcase, placing the edge of it on the table so he could open the latches. He pulled out a file folder and handed it to Sherlock.

"Sherlock, I have a proposal. The Inspector here agreed to take you on as a sort of consult for his more difficult cases. Here's the first one he'd like you to look at."

Sherlock opened the file and his pulse quickened when he saw the contents. An elderly woman, killed by an arsonist who set light to the care home bed she was sleeping in. Security cameras in the hospital showed nobody entering or leaving the room. Already, his mind was flying, trying to fit pieces together. With a constant flow of interesting cases, he wouldn't feel the urge to relapse.

"At first, you know, it'll just be old unsolved mysteries like this one," Lestrade said, his tone hopeful. "But eventually, you could work with my team on current cases. With one requirement," he said firmly. Sherlock pulled his eyes away from the file to look at the Inspector.

"You stay clean. You put some weight back on and you put that mind of yours to better use. First sign of a slip-up and you'll never be allowed to touch police files again, understand?"

Sherlock smiled briefly, just a turn up of the corner of his mouth.

Mycroft pulled a small sheet of paper out of his briefcase, handing it to Sherlock, saying "I've taken the liberty of hiring a nutritionist for you and compiled a list of places at which you might be interested in continuing your therapy, on an outpatient basis, of course."

Sherlock was overwhelmed, but kept his face neutral. He slid the list inside and closed the case file, hands shaking a little, not knowing if it was from the withdrawal or from excitement.

"Do you agree to these terms, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked him, his tone direct but his eyes soft and imploring.

Sherlock nodded once, his eyes sharp and alert.

Mycroft allowed himself a smile. "Then let's go home."

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for the ending. I'm not entirely pleased with it, and I'd like to eventually expand this, but this fic is basically a lengthy headcanon of mine.


End file.
